


Raised by Wolves

by ButterflyGhost



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benny's got a secret, and it's a little bit fairy tale.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Raised by Wolves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ride_Forever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ride_Forever/gifts).



“For fuck's sake, Benny. What, were you raised by wolves?”

That gives me pause. For the most part, my colleagues have taken my licking and sniffing for granted. The Americans have assumed it was some bizarre Canadian thing. My RCMP compatriots have assumed it was something to do with growing up amongst the Inuit. The Inuit, and any other members of the First Nations I happened to meet... well, they just shrugged their shoulders and thought, “crazy white guy.”

Funnily enough, Ray is the first person to come anywhere near the truth. My hackles rise, and I glance up at him. He's tall, and gangly, yet still strangely elegant in his long coat. His green eyes are peering at me so intensely I can practically feel them on my skin. 'What big eyes you have...' I think, but don't say.

Perhaps he really can see it... I am, after all, on my hands and knees, sniffing a bloody footprint. To be honest, it's surprising that nobody has put two and two together before now...my behaviour is not, after all, what one might describe as 'normal.' And Ray is, after all, staring down at me from a height, with an impenetrable look in his eyes. For the first time in a long time I find that I have no idea what will come out my mouth next time I try to speak.

'What, were you raised by wolves?' The question rings through my head. I sit back up on my haunches, and gaze at him speculatively. It's been a long time held, this secret, and my Grandparents are a long time dead. What harm could it possibly do... Was I raised by wolves...

I smile up at him. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I was.”

Ray shoves his hands in his pockets, and laughs, and steps away. The tension diffuses and... To be honest, I'm somewhat disappointed. I'd hoped that, if I finally told the truth, there would be a different response. That somehow, whoever I opened up to would, as per the vernacular, 'get it.' But it dawns on me, Ray was raised by a 'normal' family... parents, cousins, grandparents. Even his father, 'Pop Vecchio,' who, I understand, was a very nasty piece of work, was 'normal'. Not a wolf. We wolves have family values of our own, after all. A father like Pop would have been dealt with very abruptly, and very messily. And... Ray might have been a lot happier, and able to let go of himself more. I try to imagine a liberated and wild Ray... 

He could learn a lot from us. There's nothing wrong with wolves.

I get to my feet, and turn my head to the scent. (And he won't know that is what I am doing. He will simply believe that I'm following a clue.)

“He went that way,” I say, and point in the direction our suspect disappeared. Dief confirms my theory, and springs ahead. Ray, trusting as always, follows him, coat flapping out behind him, like a smoke grey cape. I realise, with regret, that his clothes will be ruined by the end of the chase. I wonder how many of his shoes, coats, suits, I have been responsible for wrecking, and wonder that he keeps allowing me to do so. Leading him into dumpsters, and ditches, and deep-freezes...

I smile, regretfully. He might not know that I'm a wolf, but I do know that he's my friend.

Maybe one day I'll meet someone who can return my wolfish smile.

…

 

“Jeez... Frase... what, were you raised by wolves?”

Three years after my first Ray asked the question, Ray Kowalski asks it, arms wrapped around me, pushed up against a wall, hands trying to get under my shirt. I freeze for a moment in my fumbling, my heart stopping at the question. If I tell him...

“Cause, wow, for librarians, they musta let you do a hell of a lot of sniffing around. Or licking... jeez, don't stop licking... ah... like that.” He gulps as I continue my lingual exploration of his throat and jaw. “I mean... I dunno,” he's talking complete nonsense now, as I suck his earlobe into my mouth, and tease. “What sort of books did they let you read, wolfboy?”

I say nothing, but I can't help it... at the mere syllable 'wolf' my head drops down to the curve between his neck and shoulder, and I nip. A little gasp escapes his lips, and my smile is pushed up against his skin as I burrow deeper into that perfect curve, and bite harder.

“Jeeze, Frase, what you trying to do, gobble me all up?”

“Ray,” I murmur into the softness of his throat, just below his Adam's apple, while I trace a necklace with my kisses and teeth. I hear myself growling, and glance up, speculatively, at his tilted head. “What big eyes you have.”

And they are. Huge, and hazel grey and... growing darker by the minute. I feel the grin stretching across my face. He's gasping, as my fingers do their nimble dance upon his hidden places. And I have a picture from Grey's Anatomy in my head, the path the nerves take as they radiate out from the spine. I allow my nails to track those paths until he shudders.

“What big teeth you have,” he whispers, like a prayer, like Ray Vecchio saying grace to please his Ma. But then, unlike Ray Vecchio, he's allowed to be a bad boy. His hands are tugging my belt buckle, undoing my fly, and his long fingers are... Oh. His fingers are... 

I show him my teeth, and lick them for him, so he sees. He gets it immediately. “What big teeth you have...” 

I see that beautiful pulse in his throat, and want to crush my lips around it. “All the better to...”

“Eat me...” He laughs into my smile. “Or I'll eat you.” He's smiling his approval, toothy himself. Smug and wicked at the same time. I like where his hand is. I love where his hand is... He whispers into my ear, like it's a challenge: “What a big...”

I growl, and push my face against him, mashing it up into a kiss. And... well, then there are hands and mouths, all over, and a lot more sniffing and licking and thrusting and nipping than I'd ever thought to hope for.

Afterward, we're lying curled up in each other's arms. He's idly tracing a doodle on my chest. 

“So...” his voice trails off. “Your Grandparents were librarians, were they?”

“Yes,” I say, sleepily. I've forgotten his earlier question. Language and coherent thought have a wonderful way of abandoning me after the act. 

“So... any woodcutters in your childhood?”

“We were above the Arctic tree line,” I say, not understanding what he's blithering on about, and far too happy to care. “No woods to chop.”

“Did you have a little red coat when you were a kid, or is that just something that comes with the job?”

“Just the job,” I say, snuggling up into the warm spunky scent of him, and wondering, vaguely, why he's talking such nonsense.

“So...” he pauses, “you never answered, and I gotta ask again. Were you raised by wolves?”

I open my eyes, wide, and look at him. I smell... no fear. Genuine curiosity. The aftermath of arousal, the promise of more to come. And in his face... complete honesty. He actually guessed this thing... he actually wants to know.

Was I raised by wolves?

Finally, I can say it.

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ride and I were having a perfectly normal conversation, about librarians, and wolves, and fairy tales, amongst other things, and then the next thing I knew I had Fraser's librarian werewolf grandmother in my head and... well... see what happened?


End file.
